


No One Could Love You More

by MellytheHun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Healer Stiles, Hurt Derek, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, holiday fic, mild injury description, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 18:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2860376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles begrudgingly comes to Derek's rescue during a coven-hunt, thinking Derek needs a regular, common healing only to find he may lose Derek and anything they could have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Could Love You More

**Author's Note:**

> Rated mature for language and vague sexual references!
> 
> This was written for a sterek secret santa exchange on tumblr, for jordanparrish! When I wrote her anonymously, she told me she likes boy band AUs and healer!Stiles. I have never written a boy band AU, but Derek does sing in this, which was like, my pitiful way of trying to include that. 
> 
> Also, as a warning, Derek does suffer a pretty gross injury. It's not described in gruesome detail, but it's there.

“Jesus H. _Christ_ \-- Derek!” Stiles hisses, “You are _such_ an asshole!”

 

Stiles unbuttons the cuffs on his collared shirt and he rolls up the sleeves to his elbows as he crouches down to Derek. The air is chilly and the grass and dirt are still a touch damp from the frost of the winter weather. Derek is slumped against a tree, runes drawn in his own blood smeared across his chest and a deep, circular puncture wound below his sternum.

 

Stiles’ shaky hands flutter across Derek’s tender flesh and he seethes,

 

“Shit. Those witches are fucked up. That looks like it fucking _hurts_. Are you okay? Why isn’t it healing?”

 

Derek only lolls his head more to the right to better look at him. Derek’s breaths are not noisy, but shallow and unnerving still. Stiles starts digging out ingredients from his book bag, which he had thrown haphazardly on the ground when he got out of the Jeep. He complains conversationally,

 

“You know, I was about to get up close and personal with Sierra Simone. Her _name_ even sounds like a porn star’s name. Do you even _hear_ that? _Sierra Simone_. Cute face, thick lips, amazing cleavage – asked _me_ to the Christmas Eve formal, by the way. Don’t know if you know that bit. We were gonna double-date it with Scott and Kira. Then Lassie’s nose twitches and next comes the inevitable, ‘Jinkies, Stiles, I think something spooky is goin’ on in the woods!’ The night’s barely begun and Scott calls – ‘Derek’s in trouble,’ – big _fucking_ surprise! She wants to give me head in the bathroom, but _no_ , I can’t stay because I have to haul ass over here to look at your gory wounds instead.”

 

He pulls out rare orchids and simple herbs from the front pocket of his bag, a lighter and a serrated knife from an inner pocket. He keeps digging in his bag, searching for a specific vial with a helpful elixir in it. He continues,

 

“I get all dressed up, thinking there’s no way tonight will be ruined. Nope. No way. No, tonight? Tonight – shows how dumb I am, really, having any kind of hope – thinking, tonight I will be a totally normal teenager with a super hot girl and I will _finally_ get some action. Then Scott says he’s not going, because he’s got a scent on the coven that’s been _murdering everyone_ and I’m like, ‘super, he’s taking care of it – what a good alpha, right?’ Right? And then he texts to say _you’ve_ joined the literal witch hunt and I think to myself ‘Derek is going to fuck this up,’ and _sure enough_! I’m called not an _hour_ later that you are out here, mortally wounded while he and Kira chase the baddies and you need a Stilinski-styled healing, as per usual. We should make you a customer’s loyalty punch card deal or something. Every ten brink-of-death healings you get, the eleventh comes with a free sense of self-preservation.”

 

Stiles pulls out a small ceramic bowl and stirrer. He silently mourns his dirtied dress pants and looks up from under his lashes briefly to Derek,

 

“Isn’t that tragic? Are you sorry yet?”

 

He goes back to tearing and mashing flower petals, going on, “You should be. You should be very sorry.”

 

He gestures at Derek’s chest nonchalantly and says, “And this thing isn’t closing at all. Why? What’d they even do to you?”

 

A few beats of silence pass before he sighs in aggravation while grinding the petals together in his palms, “Well? Derek? I’m not so much in the mood for your no-one-can-understand-my-man-pain, unbearable lack of verbal communication tonight. Why isn’t it healing, Derek? I gotta know how strong to make this salve.”

 

When he doesn’t get an answer, he stops fussing with mixing and mashing to look up at Derek on a put-out sigh. His frustration evaporates when he finally takes in how Derek looks. His face is pallid, his eyes are glassy and have an unfamiliar, far-away twinkle. Every fiber of him looks exhausted and defeated.

 

“Derek?” Stiles repeats more softly.

 

Derek’s eyes meet his and hone in on him, but their focus is weak. Stiles swallows loudly and his throat bobs nervously. His voice comes out cautious and quiet when he asks again,

 

“Derek, why isn’t it healing?”

 

Derek doesn’t answer right away and Stiles almost begins wondering if Derek can even hear him. He gazes at Stiles for a long few moments and eventually Stiles hears Derek’s voice murmur, gravelly and uncommonly sweet;

 

“I’d do anything for you.”

 

Stiles’ brows spring up and his heart skips a beat. His stomach curls and he feels aggravated confusion and fearful dread fill him up like water in his lungs. Heat prickles at the back of his eyes, contrasting starkly against the icy night air. Stiles furrows his brow and he orders,

 

“Don’t say shit like that.”

 

_Because it sounds like a secret you wanted to die with._

 

“I mean it.”

 

“Okay, _okay_ , I fucking _get it_ , okay?” Stiles bites, dropping eye contact and focusing back in on tearing up the orchids.

 

Semi-silent moments pass, where the woods are quiet, but both Stiles and Derek can hear the petrified, rushed booming of Stiles’ heart. He’s about to drip the elixir into the mix when he feels Derek’s hand come down on his wrist. Stiles shivers at the touch and stares at the colorless hand resting against him. He’s reminded of holding his mother’s sick, departing hand and anxiety swells up his spine, bursts and crawls up into his mind like a nest of spiders. They leave webs of questions he hasn’t wanted to ask himself.

 

“Stiles,” Derek utters. It sounds sleepy and resigned.

 

“Shit,” Stiles curses, his voice wet and worried.

 

“This is okay,” Derek tells him, but it sounds like;

 

_This is an okay place to die._

_This is an okay way to die._

_This is an okay time to die._

_I’m okay with dying tonight._

 

Stiles scowls at him, then. He argues, “No -- no, this is _not_ okay. This is the _opposite_ of okay.”

 

“It’s okay,” Derek insists in a quiet, beaten voice that doesn’t sound like his own, “It’s okay.”

 

“Stop it!” Stiles nearly shouts, taking his hand back, “Just shut up, Derek! Let me get this healing elixir done and you – “

 

“I won’t,” Derek interrupts.

 

“Yes, _yes_ you will, you asshole!”

 

“Stiles – “

 

“No,” Stiles starts; tears well up in front of his eyes more quickly than he can stop them, “No. I – I can’t. Not you. Okay?”

 

Derek’s brows curve in misunderstanding. Stiles makes a frustrated huff and says,

 

“This shit – this season or whatever is about talking about feelings and stuff, right? Telling the people you care about that you care about them and all that Hallmark stuff? We’re there. Okay? Telling each other that we care about each other -- we’ve reached that point. I mean – we don’t exactly say it, but… you glare menacingly at monsters that want to eat me and I shove unpleasant medicines into your open wounds and we call it a day. But if – if you’re saying your – “

 

Stiles can’t bear to say ‘goodbyes,’ so he doesn’t.

 

“Then…then I have shit to say too, okay? So. Just shut the _fuck_ up and let me try to fix this okay? It’s not over til it’s over.”

 

Derek doesn’t reply. He only gazes on Stiles as he finishes making his healing salve. Derek feels energy sapping from him in a way he’s never felt before and he knows he’s close to death. A marred child wriggles nervously inside him, wishing his mother or his sister were there to hold his hand, because death is starting to feel like a scary, lonely business.

 

“I’m gonna rub the salve in now, okay?” Stiles asks, eyes trained on the deep, bloody hole in Derek’s chest.

 

Derek makes some unintelligible noise in response. Stiles looks up to Derek again and inquires unsteadily,

 

“Am I… am I about to kill you? What did they do to you, Derek?”

 

Derek’s throat seems to struggle around the words, “They took my heart.”

 

Stiles lets out this strange, watery and sharp laugh. He blinks and hot tears roll down his cold face. He tries to smile and says,

 

“H-huh. Didn’t know you had one of those.”

 

Derek doesn’t seem bothered by the joke. His eyes are transfixed on Stiles; not like he’s looking to be saved, but like he’d like to admire the person attempting to. Stiles swallows again, his messy hands shaking, even colder than the rest of him. He inquires like they’re trading secrets,

 

“How are you alive?”

 

“I’m not sure. But I felt it. I saw them take it.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles chokes.

 

“We’re gonna need a Christmas miracle,” Derek jokes.

 

Stiles glares daggers at him, another tear springing from his eye, “Don’t _even_. You are _not_ funny. _I’m_ funny. You are _not_ funny.”

 

Stiles thinks that to prove that point, Derek admits;

 

“It’s my birthday.”

 

Stiles pauses, his palms flat against Derek’s frigid chest.

 

“Your birthday is Christmas Eve?”

 

Derek nods.

 

“How old are you?” Stiles asks innocuously.

 

“Twenty-six.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

Derek nods again and lolls his head to the other side, still staring at Stiles. He presents his hand as an invitation and Stiles shakes his head at it, refusing to hold it. His body starts to shake in time with his hands, his throat and chest feel hot with unshed, anxious tears. He says with false confidence,

 

“I have a plan. But it might kill us both.”

 

“That’s the preface to most of your plans,” Derek mumbles back.

 

Stiles can’t help the sardonic smile his face takes on, “I vaguely recall you saying you’d do anything for me.”

 

He’s amazed to see some color return to Derek’s cheekbones. He wonders if Derek were in any kind of health, if he’d have turned all red. Derek nods assuredly, though. He tells Stiles,

 

“I would.”

 

Stiles’ heart bumps; he feels powerful. He thinks to himself that he’s probably not feeling the same power trip that Kate or Jennifer once felt. The power isn’t coming from his power over Derek, but coming directly from Derek. Like Derek’s confessions are spells all their own, surging energy back into Stiles, making him stronger.

 

“I don’t know what kind of black magic they’re using to have your heart, but keep you alive. I think they’re probably pulling a Davy Jones on us. They’ve got your functional, beating heart with them and they’re gonna use it for a spell. You’re not dead til they use it.”

 

“So, what?” Derek asks doubtfully, cringing with the effort it takes to speak, “We find them? I can’t move.”

 

“Are you kidding? Scott and Kira are after them – they’ll get it back. And I’m not risking the time. I don’t know how long they’ve had your heart or how long it will take them to cast the spell. No. We have to heal you right now,” Stiles answers, brushing his hands off on his pants.

 

Stiles turns back to his bag and takes out a thick, yellowed book Deaton gave him at the beginning of the year.

 

“And your plan is?” Derek leads.

 

“I’m gonna give you mine.”

 

Derek’s eyes flash electric blue at him; a rejection. Stiles gives him a dry, unimpressed look.

 

“We’ll be sharing it, asshole. If I do this right, that is,” Stiles tells him while running his finger down a page.

 

He stops his finger on a specific paragraph and taps, “This. We’re gonna do this. We’re gonna share my life force til we can get your heart back. Then we’ll just … uh. You know. Get yours back. And take one of those Whack-A-Mole hammers. Shove it back in there,” Stiles explains while gesturing at the gaping hole in Derek’s chest.

 

“And what if we don’t get my heart back in time?”

 

Stiles doesn’t reply.

 

“Stiles,” Derek begins with heavy tire.

 

“Don’t make me mourn you, Derek.”

 

Derek’s brows curve inward and Stiles shakes his head. He looks down at the book instead of keeping on the severe intensity of Derek’s eyes. He explains,

 

“I can’t lose you. It’s gonna kill me.”

 

Stiles wipes under his eyes with his forearm and continues,

 

“Every time we do this. I know it’s our shtick or whatever, but this is my nightmare.”

 

He nods, like his own words are finally making sense to him. He looks back up to Derek and adds, “It’s a nightmare. Coming this close to losing you. You have to give me a chance to save you. Cause if I lose you, I can’t be saved.”

 

Derek’s eyes flicker back and forth between Stiles’ for a few electrifying moments. Then he bobs his head and Stiles takes off his shirt, shivering as he takes up his knife. He doesn’t even hesitate before he slices a superficial cut into the flesh of his forearm and uses the blood to make runes across his chest. He glances back and forth from the text the entire time, making Derek nervous. Stiles’ makes a few symbols Derek’s never seen him make before on the back of his hands. Derek listens to the relentless pounding of Stiles’ heart like it’s the last time he’ll hear his favorite song.

 

Stiles crawls onto Derek’s lap, straddling his waist; he puts his right hand over the wound on Derek’s chest. His left hand finally lets the book rest on the ground before he looks back up at Derek. Derek exhales shakily and requests,

 

“Will you hold my hand?”

 

Stiles looks down at Derek’s dirty, blood-stained palm and takes it in his easily. He searches Derek’s eyes for hesitance or doubt, but doesn’t find any there. Their breaths create a fine, foggy mist between them. Stiles says what they both know,

 

“I’m nervous.”

 

“You should be,” Derek says simply.

 

“Can you say or do something reassuring and _not_ douchey?” Stiles complains in a tone that suggests he doesn’t believe Derek can.

 

Derek leans his head forward and nudges Stiles’ chin up with his nose. His thumb rubs against Stiles’ hand and while Stiles is hypnotized by Derek’s eyes and their proximity, Derek says,

 

“My mother would sing to calm me down.”

 

Stiles’ quirks a brow and asks, “Yeah? What would she sing?”

 

“Come closer.”

 

Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat before he leans his forehead against Derek’s. He sees Derek close his eyes and relax his face. He hears Derek’s voice come a breath later, unhurried, low, sweet and gracious,

 

“ _More than the greatest love the world has known -- this is the love that I give to you alone -- more than the simple words I try to say, I only live to love you more each day_ …”

 

Stiles’ heart beats harder and louder and though Derek can’t see it, his gaze turns more and more reverent. Derek keeps singing, despite his voice sounding exhausted and unused. Stiles thinks he’d like to hear it every day of his life.

 

“ _More than you'll ever know, my arms long to hold you so, my life will be in your keeping, waking, sleeping, laughing, weeping -- Longer than always is a long, long time, but far beyond forever, you'll be mine. I know I never lived before, and my heart is very sure -- no one else could love you more.._.”

 

Derek opens his eyes and after a beat, he mutters, “That’s all I remember.”

 

Stiles blinks some of the glassiness from his eyes and smiles. Derek asks, “Did it help?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers, “yeah, it helped.”

 

When Stiles’ starts reciting the spell, the runes on the backs of his hands take on a burning glow. When Derek scents Stiles’ anxiety, he starts humming. Stiles takes a few slow breaths, listening to Derek hum as the runes on his chest smoke and begin drawing across the air to Derek’s, binding them. Stiles nearly slips up the pronunciation of a single word at the end of the spell and it makes his heart lurch. Instinctively, Derek tilts his head upward and kisses him to soothe him.

 

When Derek’s lips peel away, Stiles’ eyes flutter open, not having realized he’d closed them at all. He meets Derek’s sure gaze, tests the strength in Derek’s hand by giving it a squeeze and feeling Derek squeeze back. He smiles against Derek’s lips, still sharing his space.

 

“You feel a beat?” Stiles asks.

 

“Yeah,” Derek responds distractedly, “It’s yours.”

 

“It’s ours,” Stiles corrects.

 

“Until Scott and Kira get mine back,” Derek fills in; Stiles can’t help but appreciate how much richer and more alive Derek’s voice already sounds.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Then we’re going to Whack-A-Mole it back into my chest?” Derek smirks.

 

Stiles’ cautious smile splits into a grin and he replies, “Yeah, asshole.”

 

“Well. It’s not the worst plan you’ve ever had,” Derek shrugs.

 

Before he can sass Derek, Stiles’ phone beeps and he grabs it up against his ear. He excitedly announces, after hanging up, that Scott and Kira have the coven’s leader with Derek’s heart in tact. Stiles stands and extends his hand to Derek. Derek looks like he dreads standing, dreads running – he still looks like he may fall over at any moment. He looks up at Stiles on a tired sigh.

 

“Come on, Big Guy. Just one more fight.”

 

Derek snorts disbelievingly.

 

“For me,” Stiles convinces with wiggling fingers.

 

Derek grasps Stiles’ hand then, without a moment’s more hesitation and hauls himself up to his feet. He draws himself close to Stiles, their beating heart picking up Stiles’ nervous tick-tock. Derek leans in close, bedroom eyes already making promises and he murmurs against Stiles’ lips,

 

“Anything for you.”

 

Stiles kisses him first this time and wraps his arms around Derek’s neck. Derek’s hands come to his waist, pull him closer and they forget the cold for a few blissful minutes. It’s just their mouths moving gently against each other, shy swipes of tongue until Stiles’ phone dings again and Scott’s wondering where they are and Stiles can only laugh away the nerves and chide,

 

“Jesus, Derek, stop _distracting_ me!”

 

 

(Spoiler Alert: They get Derek’s heart back and heal him (without stuffed mallets), Derek makes a lame joke about Stiles always having had his heart anyway. Stiles and Derek end the night in a diner down town, still dirty with dried blood under their shirts and cold clinging to them. They warm up quickly, though.)

 


End file.
